


heart on the table

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Elias has more than one braincell usually, Hand Jobs, M/M, Obliviots in love, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, well - one obliviot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Elias holds out a hand, one eyebrow quirking up, and when Brock takes it, he steps backward, drawing him to the bed. Brock follows, just like always, the way he follows Elias wherever he goes without even thinking about it. It’s like breathing, like gravity. The world turns, the sun rises, and Brock follows Elias.
Relationships: Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 189





	heart on the table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notthequiettype](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthequiettype/gifts).



> This was inspired by [a post on notthequiettype's blog](https://notthequiettype.tumblr.com/post/632634742791159808/theres-a-prompt-on-a-canucks-fic-fest-thing-on) (which you should all follow if you enjoy excellent writing and hot sex) about how Brock basically thinks he's pretty great in bed and then Petey comes along and rocks his damn world. 
> 
> Naturally I had to write it, because writing himbos is just about my favorite thing. 
> 
> Work of fiction, etc.
> 
> (Also feel free to [follow me on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) for hot takes on basic white boys, original gay hockey romance, and goalies. So many goalies.)

It’s not that Brock thinks he’s like, a sex god or anything. He likes to think he’s pretty good, and he’s never—well, rarely—had complaints about his performance, but he doesn’t consider himself God’s gift to mankind in general. He’s had a fair amount of partners over the years, both in relationships and in passing, and he’s comfortable with what he’s learned and put into practice, is what he’s saying. He likes to take control, he likes to make his partner feel good, he likes to be the one directing the action, so to speak.

So when Elias slams him up against the wall and  _ pins him there, _ kissing him until Brock’s head is spinning, it’s not exactly something Brock expected. Nor does he expect the hands that slip under his sweatshirt, tugging his T-shirt free of his pants and those criminally long fingers roaming over Brock’s abdomen, teasing briefly below his waistband and then drifting up to thumb roughly over a nipple.

Brock jolts, a noise that’s definitely  _ not _ a squeak falling from his mouth, and Elias devours it, kissing him like he’s starving, like Brock’s a three course meal. Four course? Brock has no idea how many courses fancy dinners have, and right now he really doesn’t give a shit, because Elias has moved to kiss and nip along his jaw, little stings of his sharp white teeth and slow, sucking kisses against the marks he leaves behind.

“I—oh  _ fuck,” _ Brock manages, and Elias pulls back, looking faintly amused.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and Brock thinks he’ll never get tired of the way Elias’s accent thickens the ‘th’ sound of his words. Elias’s brows draw together. “Brock.”

Right, he asked a question.

“Very okay,” Brock manages, vaguely proud of himself for managing actual words. “Can we, um… do that some more?”

Elias’s eyes soften and he wraps a hand loosely around Brock’s throat, holding his head still. Lust zings through Brock and he swallows hard as Elias leans in and their lips meet again, softer this time, slower, as if Elias is  _ learning _ Brock as he kisses him, cataloging his reactions and filing them away. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Brock can’t breathe for the  _ want _ that swamps him.

They’re just inside Elias’s hotel room, and the bed’s only a few feet away, but Brock couldn’t make his feet move if his life depended on it. All he can think about is tasting Elias more, finding out what would make  _ him _ make those little noises Brock so desperately wants to hear. His hands are on Elias’s waist, and he slides one under his shirt, flattening a palm against satiny skin.

Elias makes a soft, pleased sound, but he steps back.

Brock pries his eyes open—when had he shut them?—and tries to keep the whine locked behind his teeth.

From the way Elias smiles, slow and predatory, he’s not very successful. And then Elias drops to his knees, and Brock’s brain whites out. All he can see, all he can register are the hands on his belt, the tiny wrinkle on Elias’s forehead as he works the clasp open and drags Brock’s zipper down.

“Petey,” Brock rasps, and Elias stops, tilting his face up, a clear question in his eyes. Brock can’t help running a thumb along the lethal cut of his jaw, down that long swan neck, and it takes him a minute to remember he had something to say. “This—you don’t have to, um—”

“Suck your cock?” Elias finishes, and Brock’s mouth dries up. “You know by now I don’t ever do anything I don’t  _ want _ to do, Boes.”

Brock’s mouth is still too dry to speak, but he manages a nod. 

He’s absolutely no help when Elias pulls his pants down, leaving them caught around his quads, and leans in.

Brock gulps. If he’s being honest with himself, something he tries to be whenever possible, he’s wanted this for a very long time. Maybe not since they first met, not with the way Elias had iced him out even as Brock was taking him around camp, introducing him to everyone and showing him how things worked.

But maybe… maybe since the first time he got a real laugh out of him. He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, but Elias’s head had fallen back as his shoulders shook, leaning into Brock’s side as if too weak from laughter to stay upright, and Brock had just been so  _ proud _ of himself, for making  _ Elias _ laugh, Elias who was cold and distant and shy because he didn’t see the point of trying to figure out how people worked.

Brock hadn’t been able to think about anything else for a long time after, about how warm Elias had been when he’d leaned against him, how all his sharp angles had softened, the way his eyes squeezed shut almost involuntarily, and Brock had wanted… more.

Elias runs a hand up Brock’s thigh, digging a thumb into the muscle. His other hand is cupping Brock’s hip, pressing him back against the wall. He takes his time exploring, clever fingers drawing responses from Brock with every quick, teasing touch. That wrinkle is back between his brows as he concentrates, stroking across Brock’s skin as if he’s learning where Brock’s most sensitive, what he reacts to.

He still hasn’t even  _ touched _ his cock, though, and Brock’s already feeling pretty desperate. But Elias doesn’t speed up, just breathes wet and warm over the soft skin of Brock’s groin.

“Petey,” Brock says. He’s not whining, he’s  _ not. _ He’s just… encouraging. 

Elias closes his mouth over a spot high on Brock’s inner thigh and sucks. Brock whacks his head against the wall, balling his fists to keep himself still. Elias’s mouth is hot and insistent and he’s not shy about using teeth, scraping over the spot he’s working until Brock’s  _ shaking _ with it, on the verge of begging. Every nerve feels on fire under Elias’s touch, searing hot and so sensitive he has to stuff a fist in his mouth to stop the noise when Elias bites down, worrying the flesh in his teeth.

It’s a lot, it’s so much, all the sensations flooding his body, the throb of his cock in time with his heart, but he can take it, because it’s  _ Elias _ touching him, it’s Elias doing whatever he wants to him, and to be honest, Elias could strip him naked in the middle of Granville Island and Brock would let him.

He makes a pathetic noise when Elias finally pulls off with a sucking sound, but his relief is short-lived because Elias immediately presses a thumb into the mark and Brock folds forward, Elias’s hair soft against his abdomen but he can’t even appreciate it because fuck, it  _ hurts, _ why is his cock even harder, he can’t—

Elias stops abruptly and Brock sags backward against the wall, gasping for air. Elias is examining the mark he made, head tilted. 

“You bruise so pretty,” he says, looking up, and Brock’s knees turn to water. 

“Are you—” He’s not sure how to ask. He wants more, he wants Elias’s mouth all over him, he wants that heat and pressure, but he also kind of desperately wants to come. “I thought you were, uh—”

“I’m getting there,” Elias says, corner of his mouth tucking up in a secret smile, a smile just for Brock. Brock is helpless against it just like he always is, smiling back at him and reaching out to touch him because he  _ can, _ this isn’t like usual, when he has to pretend he doesn’t want to be touching Elias all the time.

Elias lets him cup his cheek, blue eyes dark with want and maybe a little amusement still. That’s okay, Brock doesn’t mind Elias laughing at him, as long as he’s laughing.

“I—” He stops to clear his throat. “I thought you didn’t want this. Uh. Me.”

Elias’s brow draws down and he rocks to his feet in a smooth motion, taking a quick step closer, until their bodies are flush.

“You thought I didn’t want you?” He rolls his hips forward and Brock catches his breath as Elias’s erection grinds against his. The fabric of his pants feels like sandpaper on Brock’s skin and he shudders, turning his head away. “Look at me, Brock,” Elias says, and Brock can’t help the way he obeys immediately. “I have wanted you for so long,” Elias says, and his voice is suddenly soft, and his eyes—

Brock swallows hard. “Even… when you’re, ah—mean to me?” he manages, and he’s trying to make it a joke, he really is, but Elias’s eyes darken.

“I think you like it when I’m mean to you,” he says. 

_ Fuck. _

Brock really hadn’t wanted Elias to ever figure that out, and he has absolutely no idea how to respond.

“And I think—” Elias reaches between them and now he’s cupping Brock’s dick, touching him for the first time, fingers wrapping around the length and sliding down and  _ god _ it feels good, it feels so good Brock’s eyes roll back in his head a bit and he loses whatever Elias says next. 

When he drags himself back to coherence, Elias is laughing at him, that open mouth and crinkled eye laugh that Brock loves more than anything in the world.

“Shut up,” Brock says, no heat to the words. “What’d you say?”

“I said, I think you like it even more when I’m nice to you,” Elias says.

Brock attempts nonchalance. “I mean, it’s fine.”

“Uh huh.” Elias squeezes his dick briefly, strokes it once, then again. “And if I tell you how pretty your cock is? How much the noises you make turn me on? How good you are for me when I—”

Brock’s hips jerk and he comes in helpless pulses over Elias’s wrist, falling forward against him with a bitten off sob.

Elias catches him, holds him up with no effort at all, as Brock pants against his shoulder and tries to remember how to use words again.

“My god,” Elias breathes after a minute.

“S-sorry,” Brock manages. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and he still can’t quite make his limbs obey. “I—sorry, I’m—”

“Shh, no.” Elias tips his head up and kisses him, soft and sweet with something almost like wonder in the way he slips his tongue inside Brock’s mouth. “You’re perfect,” he whispers when he pulls away, and Brock’s  _ stupid _ cock twitches weakly in Elias’s hand. “Oh, I’m gonna have fun with this,” Elias says, and straightens. “Bed.”

Brock somehow gets his shoes off and his pants shoved down so he can step out of them as Elias does the same, stripping in economical movements that shouldn’t be hot, but Brock learned a long time ago that everything Elias does is hot whether he intends it to be or not.

Elias is as unselfconscious and calmly assured as ever, standing there naked and eyeing Brock like he’s deciding where to make the first—or next, really—bite. He’s long and lean, all angles and sharp planes, but his edges are softened in the warm lamp light and he’s almost glowing in it, like there’s a halo around him. Brock almost shakes his head at his own flight of fancy. He’s not usually one for pretty imaginings, but Elias seems to bring it out in him.

Elias holds out a hand, one eyebrow quirking up, and when Brock takes it, he steps backward, drawing him to the bed. Brock follows, just like always, the way he follows Elias wherever he goes without even thinking about it. It’s like breathing, like gravity. The world turns, the sun rises, and Brock follows Elias.

They end up on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Elias’s elbow catching Brock in the ribs and making him yelp. Elias laughs, breathless with it, and squirms so he’s propped above Brock, chin on one fist.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You did worse than that to me in the hallway,” Brock can’t help pointing out, partly to distract himself from the solid weight of Elias half on top of him, and partly because that had been… well, it had been a lot. And he sort of wants Elias to know how hard he’d fought to take it, to please him, to do  _ well _ for him.

Elias’s mouth curves. “Do you want another?”

Brock makes a strangled noise. He absolutely does  _ not _ want another, and also there’s nothing in the world he wants more. Except maybe Elias’s mouth on his cock, which  _ still _ hasn’t happened. 

Elias’s smile widens and he drops his head to kiss Brock’s collarbone. Brock reaches up, stroking back the cornsilk fine hair, and Elias turns to drop a kiss on his palm.

“Prince Charming,” he murmurs.

Brock rolls his eyes. “Don’t even start.”

“I thought you looked very handsome,” Elias said. He’s trying to stop himself from smiling, and Brock glares at him.

“I looked like an idiot.”

“A  _ handsome _ idiot,” Elias corrects. “Who I wanted to kiss very badly.”

“How, um, long—” Brock hesitates and Elias lowers his head to nose along his collarbone again, this time delicately scraping his teeth over the knob of bone.

“Since the beginning,” he says without looking up. “Since we met.”

“But we—you were rude to me,” Brock says. “I thought—”

Elias still doesn’t look up. “You were so nice,” he says, and he sounds a little raw, like he doesn’t want to face what he’s saying head-on, face pressed to Brock’s chest. “I didn’t know how—you smile and people love you. I can’t… I can’t do that.”

“People love you,” Brock says, running a hand over Elias’s warm, bare shoulder. Elias shrugs but not like he’s trying to get away.

“They love my hockey. If I wasn’t good… on the ice, they’d have no time for me.” He sounds resigned, like he’s thought about it a lot, like he’s accepted it, and that’s—no.

Brock sits up, dislodging him, and Elias rolls sideways, eyebrows going up.

“What—”

“If they don’t love you, it’s because they don’t know you,” Brock says, and he sounds fierce, almost angry. “The people who know you, Petey, we—” He cuts himself off but it’s too late, Elias is rolling upright, going to his knees.

“Say it,” he orders. His eyes are sharp, intense and focused on Brock’s face.

Brock shrivels in on himself. “You—you have to know,” he manages feebly, and Elias rolls his eyes.

“I need to hear it, Brock. The people who know me what?”

“We—” Why was this so fucking hard? Brock clears his throat and tries again. “We, uh, love you or whatever.”

Impossibly, Elias  _ laughs, _ his head falling back and eyes squinching shut again and maybe Brock’s a little bit offended because what the fuck, he just bared his goddamn soul here.

“‘We uh love you or whatever’,” Elias repeats through his giggles, and Brock glares at him.

“You know what, maybe we don’t love you.” He tries to roll off the bed but Elias lunges, catching him and pinning him down and when the  _ fuck _ did he get so strong? Brock makes a half-hearted attempt to wriggle free and Elias tightens his grip, somehow making himself heavier so Brock can’t get up.

“Who’s ‘we’, Brock?” he asks.

Brock closes his mouth and glares at the ceiling.

“Bro-ock,” Elias wheedles. 

Brock sighs with his whole body. Of course the first time he admits his feelings is because Elias is bullying him into it. Why should this be any different than the rest of his life?

“I love you,” he says to the ceiling. “Happy?”

“Brock,” Elias says, and there’s no laughter in his voice now. “Brock, look at me.”

Brock scowls but he obeys. 

Elias is utterly serious, gazing at him with those winter-blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything though. Instead he leans down and kisses him, and everything he  _ isn’t _ saying comes flooding forth. It’s in the tender way he cups Brock’s jaw, how softly he coaxes his mouth open, the sweep of his tongue and the way his eyes are closed, golden lashes on his cheeks, as he pours it all out.

When he lifts his head, Brock blinks up at him for a minute.

“Oh,” he says finally, and Elias giggles again, dropping his forehead to Brock’s chest.

“You’re so stupid,” he says, and he sounds so impossibly fond that there’s no way Brock can take offense. Then he scoots down the bed and with no more warning than that, closes his mouth around him. 

Brock curls forward with a bitten off shout, just barely avoiding a knee to Elias’s head, but Elias doesn’t stop or even slow down. Brock is barely half-hard but he’s getting harder by the second, spurred on by Elias’s hot mouth and the hand he’s wrapped around Brock’s shaft.

“F-fuck, Petey—”

Elias hums and Brock’s toes curl with the vibration. He smacks a hand against the mattress, struggling to ground himself. It’s not the same overstimulation as the bruise Elias had given him earlier, but it’s overstimulation nonetheless, his cock still sensitive and tender from coming recently, and the pleasure is edging just this side of pain.

Elias wants him to take it. Elias believes he  _ can _ take it. That alone is enough to make Brock hold still, to force himself to lie back and clutch at the bedspread and fight to keep from squirming as Elias works him over, the fire already gathering in his gut. 

He’s close within minutes, one hand shoved in his mouth and making pathetic noises around it, every nerve in his body on fire, when Elias lifts his head.

Brock sags, head spinning. He wants more but he’s also not sure he’ll survive it. He’s willing to give it a shot though. But Elias is swinging a leg over Brock’s thighs, sharp knee digging painfully into Brock’s side briefly before he settles himself.

“I have—wait.” He leans forward, a hand on the bed beside Brock’s head to steady himself, and rummages in the bedside table. Brock waits, still trying to catch his breath, until Elias sits up, a small bottle of lube in his hand.

“You put your lube in the nightstand?” Brock says, fighting a sudden giggle.

Elias gives him a sharp look. “I’m not an animal living out of a suitcase like Quinn,” he says primly, but his lips are twitching. He flips the lid up and pours some into his palm, then wraps his hand around both their shafts.

Brock’s hips jerk and he makes yet another embarrassing noise. Elias’s head has fallen back, mouth partly open. His hand is slick and wet and perfectly tight, and he seems to know instinctively the pace to set, slow and steady and not speeding up no matter how much Brock squirms.

“C’mon,” Brock pants, after several excruciating minutes. “Petey,  _ fuck, _ come on, please—you’re killing me.”

Elias opens his eyes and looks at him. His mouth is wet and red with Brock’s kisses, and he tilts his head, never losing his rhythm.

“What you want?” he rasps. His accent is thicker, like he’s losing his grasp on English, and the thought that it’s because of  _ him _ makes Brock wild. 

“I want to come,” he begs. “Please,  _ please _ can I come?”

“You’re so good,” Elias chokes, his shoulders hunching. “So good—yes, come, let me feel it—”

Brock plants his feet on the bed and shoves up hard into Elias’s fist, once, twice. The orgasm hits him at the base of his spine in a tingling rush and he spills with a strangled sound, bliss lighting his nerves. He’s dimly aware of Elias falling forward, hot come mixing with the mess on Brock’s belly as he shakes through it, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. Objectively, he should look pretty silly, but he’s the most beautiful thing Brock’s ever seen.

When he collapses, it’s Brock’s turn to catch him. Elias is heavy, his silky hair tickling Brock’s collarbone, rapid breaths warm on his shoulder. 

Brock feels  _ good, _ warm and exhausted like he’s just skated a hard practice, limbs heavy. He wants to sleep for a week, but Elias is already stirring, lifting his head. He looks dazed, that same thousand-yard stare he gets on the ice sometimes after a particularly tricky shot works out, and affection catches in Brock’s throat. 

“Hey,” he says, and even to himself he sounds impossibly dopey, but Elias just smiles at him.

“Hey.”

“So, uh—”

Elias raises his eyebrows as Brock chews on how to ask.

“We’re, like… doing this again, right?” he finally says in a rush, and Elias’s eyebrows go higher. “I mean it wasn’t just a one and done?”

He loves Elias’s laugh, even when it happens because he’s said something stupid. Elias has dropped his face back to Brock’s chest, his shoulders shaking. It takes a while before he’s able to lift his head, still hiccuping the occasional giggle.

“Yes,” he says, and something under Brock’s breastbone loosens. “We’re gonna do this a lot, Boes.”

“Okay,” Brock says, and he grins up at him. “That’s okay then.”


End file.
